red penblue pen
by Merccy
Summary: An angsty Danny one-shot after "Risen".


**Title: **Red Pen/Blue Pen

**Author: **Mercury

**Rating: **PG

**Author's Notes: **I was going to write something humorous and lighthearted, and then I put David Berkeley's "Fire Sign" on repeat and chucked those plans. Just some angsty, abstract Danny-ness after "Risen". Enjoy.

Seven years, three months and eighteen days. And counting.

The days on the calendar on the wall are marked with perfectly straight blue lines. They cross from the upper right corner to the lower left. You put them there with a blue Sharpie marker and a steady hand, because tonight you decided to drink the soda instead of the whisky.

Next to the blue pen is a red one. You haven't touched that one for seven years, three months and eighteen days (and counting). The red pen is for the night you decide to bring out the whiskey bottle that's lurking in the back of your pantry. The bottle of whiskey you haven't touched for seven years, three months and eighteen days. The day you do touch it will bring you back to day one all over again, and you'll have thrown away seven years, three months and eighteen days of your life.

Over in the closet is the stack of old calendars. There are nine of them. The first one is full of red lines that are anything but straight. The second one is blank, because you were too wasted to remember to mark it.

The third one has some red lines, but some blue ones, too. And reminders to go to the AA meeting on this day, or that day. And then as the calendars progress, all there is are blue lines. Straight blue lines.

You took the subway to work at first, because it's underground. They don't have bars underground. And then you took a cab because public transportation was too dirty and crowded. But now you drive. In the morning it's easy. You're too tired to care about a drink.

But in the afternoon, and the evening, you want nothing more than to go inside and get a drink. Just one. Then you remember one drink will lead to two, and two will lead to six, and six will lead to a sloppy red line on the calendar. You'll start from day one all over again, and you'll regret ever leaving work on that eighteenth day (of the third month of the seventh year).

The meetings don't help as much as they should, because they smell like despair and anger, and FBI agents don't go to places like that. Most of the other members come from off the street, where they want to stop drinking and start a better life, maybe even get a job. And when you complain about how much you could use a drink but can't bring yourself to touch one, they don't nod and murmur at you like they do to each other. They glare at you, because you shouldn't be complaining. You have a job, an income, even sometimes a girl to keep you company.

You have a nice apartment, with a nice kitchen, with a nice pantry that houses the bottle of whiskey. You've been meaning to throw it out for a while now. For seven years, three months and eighteen days. But you keep forgetting.

Sometimes, when the clues lead to a corpse and not a live person, you stay later at work. Just doing nothing, staring at your computer or pretending to flip through files. Because the knowledge that you failed to help somebody will lead to the pantry again, and a red mark on the calendar.

"Staying late, Danny-boy?" God, how you hate that nickname.

"Yeah, guess so. Just finishing up some work." Feigning cheerfulness, you wave goodbye.

"See you tomorrow, then." Go back to the file and stare at it for a while longer without really reading it. For all you know, you're looking at an already closed case and trying to solve it.

But staying late works. When you get home you're too tired to do anything but mark up a blue line and crash. And you know that next year, at the office party, you'll drink Coke. And when you wake up in the middle of the night you'll get a glass of water, as stale and as vile as it seems in comparison to a drink, and when you have a date you'll opt for the Perrier rather than the bubbly. It's harder than it looks, but you don't want to touch that red Sharpie again.

Drive past the bars. When you get home tonight it'll be another straight blue line. And tomorrow it'll have been seven years, three months and nineteen days. And counting.


End file.
